


Deadication

by jillybiehn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Comedy, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillybiehn/pseuds/jillybiehn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's gone and jumped off a building. Damn him. But he's not dead...or is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a snarky conversation on a Facebook status regarding the interminable wait between seasons. I most definitely blame Dubby.
> 
> A Post-Reichenbach AU. It's meant to actually be comedic. I promise I'll get there. Possibly some crossovers coming.
> 
> Not beta-ed, nor Britpicked. I am American, so please forgive any glaring cultural errors. :P My first fic. 
> 
> Also, they all belong to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss. I just brought them out to play.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is Sherlock we're talking about, dear. It can always get worse."

John slowly came round to consciousness. He blinked at the too-bright ceiling, trying to piece together fuzzy pieces of memory…Bart’s. Morgue. Sherlock—oh god.

Sarah had given Lestrade some diazepam and told him to get John back to Baker Street and make certain he took it and slept. John had welcomed unconsciousness; a world without Sherlock was far too much to bear at that point. But now said world was making its pesky presence known again. Damn. He closed his eyes, sighing. Day One.

He heard the rattles and clinks of tea being made. Ahh, Mrs. Hudson. She had to be in as bad of shape as he was, if not worse. Deciding to test the old adage that misery loves company, he went down to join her.

She had just put the kettle on the stove when she saw him. Her face was a study in grief. He simply opened his arms to her, and she crossed to embrace him. Her tears fell on the shirt he was still wearing from yesterday. After a few moments of silent commiseration, she moved back to look up at him.

“Sorry, luv. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of you and make it worse.” She managed a watery smile.

“Mrs. Hudson…I don’t think it could possibly get any worse.”

She chuckled, somehow managing to still sound sad. “This is Sherlock we’re talking about, dear. It can always get worse.”

He shook his head. She was right, of course. “Yeah. Thanks for that…”

~*~

He sat with his cuppa while she tsked around the flat. All the things Sherlock had left behind…would stay. He wouldn’t move an atom of it. Well, maybe the stack of files on the coffee table. And he supposed the head in the fridge could finally go. Funny enough, that made him saddest of all, the idea that the kitchen could become a kitchen again, and not a laboratory…he was roused from his maudlin train of thought by his phone ringing.

The ID said Lestrade.

“Hallo?”

“John. Good, you’re up. I was hoping not to wake you. How…sorry. Stupid question, eh?”

John smirked painfully. “Can’t get called out for stupid questions any more, Greg…”

There was a short silence on the other end. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. About that…crap timing, I know, but—“

“Statement. Yeah. I know. Best to just get it over with, don’t you think?”

“Rather like ripping off a plaster.”

“Heh. Exactly.”

“You want us to pick you up?”

“No, I can manage to get to the Yard, I think.”

“All right. We’ll look for you in, what, an hour or so?”

“Yeah, fine.”

John washed his face and changed his shirt. As he took the Tube through London—no more expensive cabs, another major change already—he wondered if the world would always seem this empty from now on.

The Yard was another story entirely. Every face bore a different emotion, varying degrees of guilt, grief, pity…relief on Anderson’s, which John nearly decked him for. He re-lived that final phone call in minute detail for them. As if he could forget even a second of it.

“Well, that’s that, then.” Lestrade shut off the recorder. “We’ll get it written up and I can close the case.”

John felt hollow. “Close the case?”

“Mucky-mucks…” Lestrade sighed. “They’re pushing me to get it wrapped up. Once I do I’m on Administrative Leave.”

“Oh for Chri—what for?”

Lestrade just looked at him. John knew very well what for.

“Sorry, mate. I…”

Lestrade shook his head. “No worries. Saw it coming miles off.”

“Let me buy you a pint then. Or three.”

Lestrade gave him an exhausted smile. “Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

John finally actually took a good look at the Detective Inspector. Greg was almost always a little rumpled and overworked, but it worked for him. Lestrade owned rumpled. Now…the hollows under his eyes were deeper and darker. He hadn’t bothered shaving. John wondered if the man had even slept.

They retired to a favorite pub, Winchester’s. They shared several pints and a couple baskets of fish and chips. The world managed to feel normal for a little while. And then John’s phone rang again.

The ID said Molly.

John winced. He didn’t know if he could handle Molly Hooper falling to pieces at the moment, but his conscience got the better of him.

“Molly?”

“John.” She didn’t sound too distraught. A good sign. “I um…can you get down here to Bart’s?”

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine, I think, but…just get down here, will you? It’s…urgent.”

“Molly, what’s going on?”

“It’s Sherlock.”

John went white as a sheet. Lestrade, already intrigued by John’s end of the convo, raised a dark eyebrow. “What…what about Sherlock?” John stuttered.

“Worcestershire sauce. Just come. The morgue. Hurry!”


	2. Worcestershire Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock called Molly before he met Jim on the rooftop.

“She actually said, ‘Worcestershire sauce.’” Greg was driving them to Bart’s, sirens blaring, lights flashing.

“Yes.”

“But what does it MEAN? Christ. I think I’m really, really pissed.”

“Greg, if I knew, do you think I’d be rushing my arse to a morgue half-pissed and smelling of fried fish?”

Greg smirked. “It’s like he never left.”

“Hah. If it really was Sherlock we’d be, I don’t know, covered in cornstarch or sheep innards or something as well.”

Lestrade started humming Sherlock’s favorite Rachmaninoff piece, which Sherlock also unconsciously did during moments of progress and excitement on a case.

John looked at him askance. “I think you really are really, really pissed. Should you be driving?”

“Oh shove off. I’m fine.”

“I can make a citizens arrest…”

“Go ahead. It’s not like *I’ve* shot any cabbies lately.”

John frowned, then sulked. Of course Lestrade knew. “Neither have I. That was over a year ago. And he was a—“

“A very bad cabbie. Yes, I know.”

They screeched to a halt at the back entrance to the hospital, and raced to the elevator and the basement. Molly stood waiting for them.

“What in bloody hell is going on? Where is Sherlock? What’s happened?”

“It’s all right, John, just…calm down for a mo and let me explain?”

John glared at her, a silent urge to continue and be quick about it.

“Sherlock had a theory he’d always wanted to try…I never let him, of course, because if it actually worked, who knew what the consequences would be…but he called me yesterday and said he needed my help—“

Lestrade interrupted. “He called you before he jumped?”

Molly nodded. “Well before he even went up to the roof, I think. Made me promise I’d try it if he ever…”

“Ended up on your table,” John finished for her. Molly nodded again.

Lestrade shook his still-foggy head, trying to clear it. “So what, exactly, does this have to do with Worcestershire sauce?”

“Oh, everything!” Molly told them. “It was the central part of the idea.”

“I think I need to sit down,” John muttered, nearly collapsing into one of the hospital chairs outside the morgue doors. Lestrade joined him, rubbing his temples. “Start at the beginning, Molly,” John said tiredly.

“I guess it was one of those moments of extreme boredom—you know how he got, throwing things—“

“—shooting things—“

Molly smiled a little and continued. “So he had on the telly and was flipping through the channels, you’ve seen him, barely lights on anything for more than a few seconds, and he came across a programme about reanimation.”

“Reanimation. Bringing corpses back to life.”

“In one. They’d accidentally embalmed the bodies with Worcestershire sauce and they came back. He was so intrigued by the ridiculousness he began to research it.”

“Enbalmed with Worcestershire sauce. On the telly.” John’s tone was flat.

“I know, it sounds ludicrous, but—“

“Hold on a mo!” Lestrade shouted. “I’ve *seen* the show you’re talking about. Sherlock based a theory on reanimation off an episode of SOUTH PARK?”

“Is that what it was?” Molly asked blankly. “The way he described it, it sounded like a documentary on BBC Four.”

John held up a hand. “So, what, you embalmed Sherlock with Worcestershire sauce. Does he finally have a bit of color?” He couldn’t help it. This was just preposterous.

“Well, no…”

The door to the morgue swung open and there he stood. Large as life, paler than ever, a bit worse for the wear…

“Hello, John. Lestrade.”


	3. Occam's Razor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just...what the bloody hell? But at least Sherlock's back.

John gaped at the impossible sight of Sherlock alive and well-ish for several seconds before turning to Lestrade.

“Did you slip me more diazepam in the pub?”

The look on Greg’s face was also one of utter disbelief, and he was as pale as Sherlock. “Christ, no…if I had I think I’d have kept some for myself.”

“Right.” John steeled himself and looked back at Sherlock. “So…how’s things?”

Sherlock smiled that Sherlock smile. “It worked.”

“The sauce? I see that. How do you, er, feel?”

“Brilliant!” Sherlock clapped his hands together with relish. “I suspected the preservative properties of the spices could have an effect.” He enthusiastically kissed Molly on the cheek. She didn’t look as though she enjoyed it nearly as much as she should have.

“Sherlock,” Greg finally spoke. “You. Are. Dead.”

“Well, technically, yes, I suppose I am. We still haven’t been able to find my pulse, and I don’t seem to need to respire, other than to speak.”

Lestrade turned to John. “You’re the doctor. This is impossible, right? We’ve been drugged, or we’re passed out in the alley behind Winchester’s…”

Sherlock held out his hand. “Phone please? Mine seems to have been irreparably damaged.”

John absently handed over his mobile. Sherlock began texting.

“I’m going with post-traumatic stress disorder,” John said after a few moments. “Hallucinations aren’t at all uncommon—“

“Dull!” Sherlock shouted. “Occam’s Razor. When you’ve eliminated the impossible—“

“Whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth,” John & Lestrade finished for him, sounding like schoolchildren reciting by rote.

Sherlock looked mildly pleased he’d had such an effect on their intelligence.

“He’s a zombie,” Lestrade sighed.

“Excuse me?” John was taken aback.

“On South Park. The bodies that were embalmed with Worcestershire sauce became zombies.”

“Zombies. Like Dawn of the Dead, brain-eating apocalyptic zombies.”

“Not hungry.” Sherlock was texting again.

“He doesn’t seem very zombie-like,” John objected.

“Well, obviously those are telly zombies,” Molly offered. “We honestly have no idea how a real zombie would behave.”

Lestrade shook his head. “That means I’m Rick and you’re Herschel.”

“Nonsense. You don’t look anything like Andrew Lincoln oh my god we’re not even going there!” John held up his hand again. “No. Walking Dead. Analogies.”

Sherlock looked like he’d discovered fire. “Walking Dead. I’ll have to start a new website, cataloging the aftereffects of the Worcestershire sauce and—“

“It’s taken, Sherlock. We’ll find you something original. In the meantime…I need tea.”

“Home then! I need to check to see if my _phytopthera infestans_ is sporulating!” Sherlock was headed for the door, John’s phone still in hand.

“Phy what?” Lestrade looked terminally confused.

“Fungus. Come on,” John took Lestrade by the arm and began to follow Sherlock. “ You need tea as badly as I do.” He stopped and turned back. “Molly…”

She offered a smile. “Yes?”

“Well done. I think.” Suddenly John was very glad there was still a head in the fridge, in case Sherlock got a bit peckish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nudge and a wink to my SG-1 THING! friends. How's things?


	4. Not-So-Silent Lucidity

They took a cab, of course, Lestrade following. Sherlock hated riding in police cars.

“Sherlock? Who are you texting?”

“Anderson. He may think you’re possessed.”

“For pity’s sake, Sherlock—“

“Pity, John, is one thing I’ve never subscribed to, and you are very well aware of it.”

John had to agree; Anderson certainly had some sort of revenge coming. “Tell me more about your Worcestershire sauce theory.”

“Well, the Ancient Egyptians used salts and spices in the mummification process—“

“Yes, that’s mummies, Sherlock. Not zombies.”

Sherlock sighed testily. “I’m still working on the actual reanimation chemistry.”

“You had no idea what it would do!”

“No. But I was already dead. I didn’t see much harm in giving it a go.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. We didn’t know if it would work. Although perhaps now Miss Hooper will allow me to conduct more extensive—“

“Sherlock,” John said calmly, “You are not creating a zombie army.”

“Not an army. Perhaps a platoon…”

John opened his mouth to splutter angrily at him until he saw Sherlock’s face. He was joking. “Just as well. I wouldn’t put it past you to have tried on Moriarty.”

Silence.

“Sherlock…you did not reanimate Jim Moriarty.”

“No.”

John relaxed a little.

“I hypothesize his brain injuries were too extensive—“

“Sherlock!” john shook his head. “Why on earth would you…why am I even asking. I know why. Because you can.”

Sherlock smiled, self-satisfied. “Oh, you are getting so good at deducing for yourself.”

“No, I just know how you operate.”

~*~

Mrs. Hudson was out then they arrived home, but the lights were still on in their flat. It truly was no surprise to find Mycroft and his umbrella waiting for them upstairs. He rose as Sherlock entered the room.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock. You look…unexpectedly well.”

Sherlock smirked. It was a rare thing to get one over on his older brother, and he relished the idea that Mycroft would never live this one down. “Thank you. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Tea, Mycroft?” John was headed for the kitchen, wondering if this day could possibly get more insane.

“Please, John. Two Splenda, if you would be so kind.” Mycroft re-took his seat.

“Diet again?” Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow.

“Man cannot live on brains alone, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled a little.

“I wanted to speak to you about—oh, hello Inspector Lestrade. You’re just in time.”

“Mister Holmes.” Lestrade flung his coat over a chair and joined John in the kitchen, his face silently asking, _What the hell?_ John just shrugged.

“I was just about to explain to Sherlock why I’m going to have to take him into government custody,” Mycroft continued.

“Like hell you are.” Sherlock flopped dramatically on the sofa.

“Sherlock…I don’t know how you found out about it, because I know you didn’t see that particular lab at Baskerville, but you—“

“Hang on a minute,” John interrupted, coming in from the kitchen. “You’re studying bloody Worcestershire sauce at Baskerville?”

“Since the mid-nineties. It has some…unusual properties.”

“You don’t say,” John said dryly.

“How does it work?” Sherlock asked suddenly, sitting up.

“Reanimation?”

Sherlock nodded.

“The anchovies.”

Sherlock hissed and flopped back again. “Anchovies. It’s always something.”

“At any rate, Sherlock will need to be monitored—“ Mycroft continued.

“And poked and prodded and tested…” John added.

“I’m not bloody Bluebell,” Sherlock sulked.

“Of course not. Worcestershire sauce does not produce bio-luminesc—“

John sighed “Mycroft. Whatever testing needs be done, we can do here. Sherlock is more than capable…what?”

Mycroft’s expression had turned…not exactly sad, or concerned, but definitely something negative.

John moved Sherlock’s legs—criminey he was cold to the touch!—and sat down. “All right. Out with it.”

“It won’t last.”

“What won’t last?” Lestrade was leaning against the wall in the kitchen entryway.

“This,” Mycroft motioned to his younger brother. “They always retain some lucidity at the beginning, but it isn’t long before we see a dramatic reduction in intelligence.”

“So he really will become a zombie.”

“I’m afraid so, Doctor Watson.”


End file.
